


Once More With Feeling

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Everybody Loves a Clown, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Post-Coital Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-22
Updated: 2006-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-2.02 massage!Wincest fic with a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More With Feeling

Sam's a lot more tactile after Dean recovers from the crash. Part of it is dealing with Dad's sudden death – reaffirmation that Dean's actually still around, that kind of thing – but the rest is just Sam being Sam. He likes to touch people. When he was little, he always wanted to be touching Dean; the whole aloof thing didn't start until his hormones kicked in, and then after – well, there was the whole Stanford thing, which wasn't exactly cause for a lot of hugging. Dean never hints at it, but he kind of misses that. He got used to Sammy always being underfoot, like a cat twining around its owner's ankles; when Sam shot up a foot and started answering him and Dad in monosyllables overnight, it was like living with a stranger. He had to learn a new set of boundaries for teenage Sam, and Dean's never dealt well with change.

In the aftermath of all the stuff that Dean's avoiding thinking about, while Sam's pissed as hell at him and they're spinning their wheels in the dust until the car's fixed, Sam's renewed penchant for touch is something Dean's doubly glad of. While he's happy to be back on his feet again, or rather, on his back working on his baby, his body still aches like a sonofabitch at the end of the day. Miracle cures might be good for fixing internal bleeding, but they don't do dick for injured muscles. And Sam – Sam's got fantastic hands. So when Dean sinks down on the bed in Bobby's spare room, letting his head hang between his shoulders, and he feels the mattress dip under Sam's weight, he doesn't even think about moving.

"How's it going?" Sam asks, his voice a low murmur in Dean's ear. He grabs the bottom of Dean's filthy t-shirt and pushes it up and over Dean's head, leaving him to strip it off the rest of the way.

"It's going." Dean exhales a soft breath as Sam's warm hands come down heavy on his shoulders. "She'll be ready in a week or so."

"Good," Sam replies. He pushes his thumbs hard in between Dean's shoulder blades, working out the knots of tension as he finds them. "I found a place in town that'll do the paint job. Six coats, like you wanted."

Dean's heart does a slow flip-flop in his chest. This is Sam's peace offering; healing whatever parts of Dean he can touch. Dean lets his body sag the tiniest bit, leaning back toward Sam's warmth without actually giving in.

"Book it in for next Thursday," he says. "Should be done by then."

"Will do. Melvyn J. Bernstein's gonna have the sweetest set of wheels this side of the Mason-Dixon line," Sam says, and chuckles deep in his throat.

Dean smiles reflexively at the sound, feeling himself beginning to relax. Sam's hands are steady and strong on his shoulders, long clever fingers finding the worst spots and pressing-circling-rubbing until the ache just magically disappears, leaving him with a glow of contentment that spreads everywhere Sam touches.

It's been weeks since they had anywhere near this much contact, and Dean soaks it up, closes his eyes and revels in it, confident that Sam can't see his face. Sam's seen just about every side of him at this point; but Dean's a product of his father's teachings, and therefore wary of showing anything that might be considered a weakness. He can admit in the privacy of his own head how much he wants this, and how much that scares him. He'll let himself lean into Sam's hands and bow his spine under his touch, inviting further exploration; but he can't bring himself to show or, God forbid, tell Sam exactly how it makes him feel. There's too much to articulate, anyway: _never stop_ and _I love you_ and _nobody else can touch me_ and _you're everything_ and a hundred other sappy, kill-me-now clichés that make him want to cringe. He might feel all of that, but he sure as hell doesn't want to talk about it.

He kind of wants to discuss the boner developing in his jeans, though. He wonders idly if Sam knows how much of a turn-on he actually is. Like, _all_ of him. Dean's never had quite the same reaction to anyone else: he finds certain things insanely attractive, like a nice pair of boobs or a well-rounded ass. But Sam – Sam's whole body is like a dose of pheromones right to Dean's head, every time he sees him. Which, given they're together every damn second of the day, is a lot of stimulation to deal with. Dean thinks it's amazing he isn't running to the bathroom every five minutes, quite frankly, but then he is a Winchester, so impressive levels of willpower are par for the course.

Right now, Sam's hands on him and Sam's voice in his ear are more than enough to get Dean hard, even though he's so tired he can't think straight. But again: Winchester - therefore he'd be able to fuck on his deathbed, therefore – no reason not to now. He licks his lips, fights a shudder as Sam ghosts over a sweet spot on his spine, and palms his stiffening cock in one hand, rubbing. Sam can't see anything; no harm, no foul.

He's totally forgotten about the mirror that hangs side-on to the bed.

Sam's working his way down Dean's back, pushing in firmly with his palms, massaging the dorsal muscles right where he's been ignoring a low-grade ache for days. Dean tries to stifle a grateful moan as the heat from Sam's hands sink in – he's always been a fucking furnace – but a grunt escapes him. His hand closes hard around his cock as Sam huffs silent laughter from somewhere above the haze of satisfaction blanketing his senses. He feels almost boneless, definitely can't feel his shoulders anymore and that's the best non-sensation ever; and really, right now Dean thinks Sam's the most awesome person in the entire fucking world. Not that he doesn't normally think that anyway, but he rarely lets himself verbalise it, even in his own head.

"Feeling better?" Sam asks; he sounds like he's smiling.

Dean nods stupidly, his neck seeming disconnected from the rest of him so he feels kind of like one of the Tracys. _Thunderbirds are go_ , he thinks, and grins a little, dragging a fingernail down the teeth of his zipper, enjoying the tease.

"Mmmm-hmmmm." He rolls his head around, opening his eyes a crack. Spots a glimmer of reflected light from the mirror; locks up from head to foot in less than a second, all of Sam's work undone.

"Dude, what—"

Sam follows his gaze, meets his eyes in the mirror's reflection. Dean feels stripped bare under the combination of Sam's eyes and hands all over him.

"—the hell," Sam finishes, and lets his hands fall. "You have some serious issues, Dean, you know that?"

Dean shoots off the bed, wincing as the knots re-form themselves. He darts a glare in Sam's direction but doesn't look him in the face; he may or may not be blushing, but there's no need to broadcast it. He absolutely does not acknowledge the hard ridge in his jeans that makes him walk just a little bowlegged.

"I'm taking a shower," he snaps and reaches for his duffle to find clean clothes.

He's totally unprepared for it when Sam grabs him around the waist and tosses him lightly on the bed, looming over him on all fours before his head stops spinning.

"Look," Sam says quietly, "I know you don't want to talk about it. I get that, Dean. But you can't shut me out forever. I won't let you." He dips his head, runs his nose along Dean's jawline. "We don't have to talk. But you have to give me something, and I want – I want this." He pulls back and looks Dean square in the eye. "Okay?"

Dean's so tense he feels like one wrong move will snap all the bones in his body. His face is hot, his breath shudders in and out of his lungs like a bellows, and his fingers are itching – to punch Sam or grab him, he's not sure. But when Sam looks at him like that, straightforward and honest and _asking_ for the same thing Dean wants so badly ... well. He crumbles so fast it's embarrassing.

He can't say it; his voice would break or something, and that is seriously not cool. So he nods, jerkily, and wraps an arm around Sam's back, pulling him down to lie full-length over him. Sam collapses with a sigh of relief – how the hell can he _do_ that, right out in the open, Dean wonders – and his hands come up to rest on Dean's shoulders again, picking up automatically where they left off.

"Turn over," he murmurs into Dean's neck. "Let me finish."

Dean can't hide the shiver that runs through him this time; he's shifting before Sam's finished his sentence, stretching out facedown on the bed, anticipation making him twitch. Sam runs a gentle hand down his back and Dean arches into it like a cat, flushing hotter at Sam's chuckle but not really caring. He pushes a hand underneath his belly and flicks the button on his jeans open, scrabbling to get his zipper down. Sam walks two fingers up his spine and helps pull the denim away with his free hand, easing it down over Dean's ass, palming one firm curve before sliding back up to continue his earlier massage. He's not as careful this time, pushing in deep and hard with his fingertips, seeking out pleasure spots as well as pain, brushing lightly over Dean's ticklish sides, laughing when Dean jerks in reaction.

Dean humps lazily into his palm, the hairs on his arms and neck rising as he feels his orgasm building. Sam's given up any pretence of a massage at this point; he's caressing Dean's back from nape to buttocks with long sweeps of his hands that leave trails of warmth behind. Dean starts to rock faster into his fist, gripping the edge of the bed with his free hand, staying silent out of habit because that's what they've always done. It's been weeks since they've done this, not since ... before, and he's missed it like he'd miss one of his senses. He closes his eyes and immerses himself in the feeling of Sam's hands on him, trying to make up for lost time, lost opportunities ... loss.

In the next instant, Sam's got a hand under his shoulder and is flipping him onto his back, and Dean's caught wide open with his hand on his cock and his bottom lip caught between his teeth, biting down so he won't make a sound. Sam stares down at him, his own face flushed, clearly hard, thighs spread wide and settled over Dean's hips.

"Let me," Sam grits out, and wraps his hand around Dean's, stroking between and around his fingers and slipping down to play with his balls. He presses deep into the skin behind, dances a light touch further back, then returns to jerking Dean off with a slow, hard stroke that drives him absolutely crazy in no time flat. Dean pulls his hand away and tries to cover his eyes, but Sam's not having it; he grabs Dean's arm and pulls it down, twining their fingers together, his gaze pinning Dean in place. There's so much going on in Sam's eyes Dean can't bear to look, but Sam's not giving him an option.

"Hurry up, God damn it," Dean groans, wanting an end to it, wanting to hide before Sam sees right down to the heart of him. He's a mess and Sam knows it, but knowing and seeing are two different things and he's the oldest, damn it all. He should be better than this. But Sam's fingers are magic, always have been, and he's helpless to fight against it as they pull and twist and slowly milk him until he's spurting sudden and heavy over his belly, toes curling, muscles straining and then, all at once, relaxing until he's a limp sprawl of limbs on the bed.

"That's better," Sam mutters over him and, before Dean can get his head together enough to raise a hand, Sam's unzipping and jerking himself off, a rough half-dozen strokes, his head tipping back to reveal that spot on his throat that Dean always wants to bite as he shudders through his own orgasm.

Sam tilts and falls to the side, tangling his legs with Dean's, and they lie there for a few seconds, panting. Then Sam shifts over and worms his way under Dean's arm, lying half over his chest. Dean makes an irritated noise for form's sake, but he tightens his hold on Sam's shoulder almost unconsciously.

"Feeling better?" Sam asks, and kisses Dean's chest.

"Except for the whole _cuddling_ thing, yeah," Dean retorts. Sam grins against his skin and mouths a quick bite.

"Shut up and enjoy it. I just gave you a happy ending; it's the least you can do in return, dude."

A happy ending. Dean wishes it were that simple. It is, for a while; then everything starts to creep back in, the things he doesn't think about. But it's comforting to know he can always get a little piece of it with Sam when he needs it.

He wraps his other arm around Sam's waist, kisses his forehead, and tries to hold the world at bay a little longer.

END


End file.
